Confession
by justanotheryaoifangirl
Summary: When Father Bielschmidt is confronted with the confession of a young man's homosexual desires, he finds himself in dangerous new territory that threatens to overturn his devout life and awaken desires within him he never wanted to face. But, when those confessions of fantasy become reality, the clergyman finds himself struggling with attraction, desire, and his own sacred vows.


**A/N: I'm sure some of you have seen this on tumblr, but Christina is going to try her hand at a chapter-fic, and she sincerely hopes she does not fail because this fic is quite dear to her, and has been mulled over for quite some time. Updates will be slow.**  
**Warnings: Several kinds of blasphemy, mentions of sex. The M-rating is for later chapters, though.**  
**Disclaimer: APH not mine.**

The first time he comes, Gilbert nearly falls off his seat in shock.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," an unfamiliar voice begins. "It has been two years since my last confession and I…I accuse myself of the following sins." A pause, and then: "I've been having lustful thoughts about other men."

Gilbert tries to swallow down his gasp but chokes on it instead, coughing violently as he grapples with the armrests of his chair, keeping himself upright as he heaves. A tense silence stretches between them, punctuated only by Gilbert's residual coughs, until finally the man on the other side of the screen shuffles uncomfortably and continues.

"I've been having these thoughts for the last two years, perhaps even longer. I can't seem to stop them. T-they've even poisoned my dreams."

The man falls silent, but the air around them is still tense, and his pause is pregnant. Gilbert can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and swallows, waiting.

"Father, I've also lied to my wife almost every day for the last two years."

Gilbert's fingers find the armrests again, and he grips them tightly, feeling unbearably claustrophobic in the small booth that surrounds him. He brings a trembling hand up to his face, pressing his palm to his cheek and almost jerking away from his own touch when he feels an unmistakable, burning flush.

The firm, resolute words of Father Vargas thrum loudly in his head and suddenly Gilbert misses the familiar parishioners that come by every other week, even the man with the French accent who confesses to lusting after a different woman every month even though he is soon to be married.

'_Gilbert,'_ Father Vargas had said to him, _'every detail must be laid forth in confession. Every trace of pleasure experienced has to be examined in order to find the traces of sin.'_

"…Father?"

Gilbert starts, forgetting, for a moment, that the man is there.

"I'm sorry," he answers, leaning his head heavily on the screen between them. He catches a glimpse, then, through a crack in the old screen of a pale, shaky hand clutching tightly at a handful of purple fabric. A simple gold band adorns the man's ring finger, so natural against his skin it looks as if it had been there his entire life. Gilbert averts his eyes guiltily, offering up a silent prayer to the Lord as he entertains the temptation to peer through the crack and guess at the identity of his confessor.

"I'll have to ask you for more detail regarding your lustful thoughts," Gilbert says, going on the quote Father Vargas almost verbatim. There is a shuffle against the wall between them and the man clears his throat, the sound surprisingly delicate.

"Yes, Father. I understand."

Gilbert tries to ignore the way the man's voice shakes, guilty and scared, as he begins to speak. It's easier then he expects, though, because soon enough he can feel his cheeks heat with shame and embarrassment, feelings so foreign he almost doesn't recognize them.

"In my thoughts – ah, no…my f-fantasies," the man corrects, choking over the word, "I am being pleasured by an anonymous man. He...he is…his hands are all over my exposed body, a-and he is kissing me…"

It is evident that the man is beyond nervous and Gilbert does not blame him. As the anxious rustling of what Gilbert presumes to be the man's coat reaches his ears, he almost feels sorry for the stuttering mess on the other side of the screen, only able to stave off pity by reminding himself repeatedly – like a mantra in his head – that the man is just confessing his sins, as he is obligated to, and that this is the first step on his way to leading a sin-free life. But, as the man continues to speak Gilbert cannot help but squirm in his seat, more uncomfortable than he ever remembers being at a confession.

"Then, h-he, um…he uses his mouth…o-on my genitals…and inserts his fingers i-into my rear…"

By now, the man's voice has deteriorated to a whisper and Gilbert has to press his ear against the screen to properly hear him.

"I-is that enough, father?" the man asks, his whisper shaky and cold. His voice hits the hollow of Gilbert's chest, hard.

_Yes_, he wants to say, _yes that's enough. You're stuttering so badly I'm almost afraid for your health so please just stop and let me give you penance and please don't come again during my hours._

Gilbert's distraught fingers try to curl into the mesh of the screen between them, looking for an anchor. Instead, he finds the anxious, twitching fingers of the man across from him and jerks away when the other gasps, his own hand quickly retreating as well.

"S-sorry, Father. I didn't…I wasn't…"

The man trails off and Gilbert nods absently, an uneasy silence descending over them.

"Did you enjoy it?" Gilbert asks, and the man's startled 'w-what?' sounds almost as surprised as Gilbert feels about the words that leave his mouth.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asks again, still too stunned by his own words to stop himself. "Do you enjoy your fantasies?"

Silence once again settles over them, and this time not even the rustling of the man's clothing can be heard in the tiny confessional. The muscles in Gilbert's wrists strain and throb as they tremble where he rests them in his lap, and he swallows, waiting for something he's not sure he's ready to hear.

"Y-yes. I enjoy them," the man finally answers over a shuddering sob that Gilbert feels more than hears through the screen. "Very much so."

Gilbert nods twice before remembering that the man cannot see him and takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

"Is there anything else you want to confess?"

The answer is yes, and Gilbert spends another few minutes listening to benign sins – the man's given to gluttony and sloth, has taken the Lord's name in vain in his thoughts more times than he can count – but Gilbert is unable to focus on any of them for even a moment. When the man is done, Gilbert utters a penance, the first he can think of, and waits for him to leave. Instead, he speaks again.

"F-father, is that all? Such a short penance…?"

Gilbert's nerves are bunched up so painfully beneath the black cloth of his robe that he doubles the Hail Marys without thinking. Anything to get this man to leave; he can't stand it anymore. He feels like he's suffocating.

"Thank you, Father," he answers, and Gilbert's stomach churns violently at the man's voice, brightened with relief at his ridiculous penance. Gilbert nods, once again forgetting that the man cannot see him, and swallows thickly.

When he finally leaves, Gilbert looks down to find that his hands are fisted so tightly in his cassock his knuckles are white. He lets out a shaky breath he does not realize he is holding and falls to his knees on the hard wood floor of the confessional to pray for forgiveness. He does not know what sin he has committed, just that his entire body burns with shame in a way he's never known.

It isn't until Feliks comes to knock on the ill-fitting wooden door that Gilbert finally rises, hands still shaking slightly as he slides the door open and faces his peer with what he hopes is a convincing smile.

"Father Augustus asked us to clean up tonight, Gil- oh, oops! I'm sorry! I mean, Father Bielschmidt," Feliks laughs, hand clasped over his mouth in apology even as the corners of his lips curve upward into a smile. Gilbert can't help but smile a little more genuinely as well, wrapping a friendly arm around the smaller man's shoulders and answering in a conspiratorial stage whisper.

"You can just call me Gilbert, Feliks. Don't worry so much; I won't say anything to Father Vargas about it." Feliks nods, beaming, and Gilbert almost has to shy away from the brightness of his grin; it's no wonder he's the parishioners' favorite.

Glad that Feliks doesn't notice his shaking, Gilbert drops his arm from around the other priest's shoulders, allowing him to adjust his Roman Collar as Gilbert goes to get a broom. The two of them sweep in relative silence, the corners of the small church simply echoing back the sounds of their feet shuffling along the floor and the cheerful tune Feliks is humming under his breath.

When they are done cleaning, Felix bids him goodnight with a smile and a wave, leaving Gilbert to lock up the church and walk home in the dusky twilight, alone with his thoughts.

Briefly, he wonders if it is blasphemous to pray that he never has to listen to that man's confessions again. It probably is, he realizes, but it can't possibly be more sacrilegious than the dreams he has when he lays down to sleep, dreams of pale hands nervously twisting and grasping at purple fabric as a lone gold band shines brightly like a beacon to tempting devils.


End file.
